


Transfixed: A Jane Eyre AU

by FrankCastlesTankTop (SecretlyWritingFanfic)



Category: The Punisher (TV 2017), kastle - Fandom
Genre: 1830s NYC, Angst, F/M, Family, Foggy is reimagined here, Frank and Karen are meant to be together, Liberties are Taken, Loss, Mutual Pining, Revenge, Slow Burn, Smut Is On The Way, canon is respected, jane eyre au, kastle gothic au, these two are the best sort of gothic angst soulmates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-20
Updated: 2018-06-10
Packaged: 2019-04-25 06:30:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 17,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14372913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SecretlyWritingFanfic/pseuds/FrankCastlesTankTop
Summary: Fierce-hearted and brave beyond her station, governess Karen Page discovers ghosts old and new haunt the halls of Thornfield House. As she draws closer to the mysterious master Castle, Karen uncovers secrets that will change her heart and her life.





	1. The soul begins to expand

Autumn of 1839 hangs heavy over the slate roofs of Lowood Girls School in Vermont. Wary of the storm to come, Karen Page hurries along a gravel track that traces the school’s boundary. There is a tang in the air of cold rain and ozone; of shifting possibilities and frightening potential.

The first few fat drops strike across Karen’s shoulders. She gathers the heavy wool of her dress in one hand and begins to run.  
The wind is at her back.  
  
The common room echoes with the sound of her arrival; wood scraping stone, hushed voices now stilled; her own hard breath. In her fist is a letter neatly addressed to Miss Karen Page. Breathless from the cold march back from the post office in Fagan Corners, she pauses to remove gloves, bonnet and scarf. Red rises in her cheeks and ears, calling a stark contrast to icy blonde hair pulled tight and pinned in a neat knot at the base of her neck.  
  
Karen turns the letter over in her hands, tracing the wax seal and thin copperplate that spells out her name and address. It is from Mrs. Nelson of Thornfield House, New York City. The contents of this packet could mean the end of fifteen miserable years and the beginning of something brighter. Overwhelmed by the weight of the moment to come, she sucks in a breath and blushes. Karen slips into a hallway for a moment of privacy.  
  
(Over the years, headmaster Fisk had been fond of reminding his pupils that nothing within the walls of Lowood belonged to them – even their immortal souls. Those were the property of the Lord above, and his judgment would be fierce.)  
  
Fingers shaking, Karen splits the seal on the paper and unfolds it.  Mrs. Nelson writes to offer employment as governess to a little girl of good family for a term of one year.  
  
_Dear Miss Page,_  
  
_Many thanks for your response to my posting for a governess. Our young charge is in great need of instruction and her passion for learning far surpasses our own meager knowledge. You will begin your term at the start of the next month. If you are unable to arrange transportation before this time please inform me in advance, as we have already told your pupil of your arrival and she is most eager to begin. By chance do you speak French…_  
  
Mrs. Nelson continues that there is a schoolroom in the house, though Karen may choose another location if needed. There is also stipend, far more than Karen could have hoped for anywhere in New England, let alone Vermont.  
  
Tears well in Karen’s eyes and she must clap a hand over her mouth to hold back a sob of joy.  
The wages, the student, the schoolroom are all fine things. But what matters most in this correspondence is the postmark. New York is a great distance from Vermont and the sadness that permeates it.  
  
The whisper is soft in her ear.  
  
_You have such a passion for living…_  
  
It shakes her breath and she shivers in remembering it.  
  
_Come now_ , she thinks _, no more tears in this place. God knows they have none for you._  
___  
  
Dressed for travel, carpet bag packed tightly, Karen departs with ringing footsteps on the black slate step. The handle of her bag threatens to slip free twice before she knows the way of it. It travels with her to the waiting coach like a favorite pet under her arm, its round brocade belly full of her few possessions: Three books plus gifts of a scarf and gloves all wrapped tightly at the top. A sturdy journal, ink pot, and pen clink softly at the bottom of the bag.  
  
The writing set is a final treasure from a trusted teacher, Miss Dumont, pressed into Karen’s hands before she departed. Though Dumont’s teaching method had been severe, she was the only instructor to allow the girls to read for pleasure and had encouraged Karen’s love of writing.  
  
Karen could remember when adults towered over her, dour and strict with rods gripped in red-knuckled hands. At ten years old, Karen had been too full of anger to bother with fearing her teachers. Unwilling to bend to the force of Headmaster Fisk’s rubric, she found there were worse things than sharp reprimands. The beatings had been painful, but the isolation had been unbearable. Had she known before entering Lowood what was in store, she wondered if she’d have preferred life in the streets and infamy.  
___  
  
The headmaster had come to review Karen himself ahead of her admission. He was broad and barrel-chested with pale rolling jowls. Fisk’s presence consumed the light in Aunt Marion’s parlor, though there was little of it to begin with – the woman herself was not unlike a deep cave where love could not be found.  
  
“Are you a good child, little girl?” he asked in a strange, clipped tone.  
  
“Best not to invite discussion, Mr. Fisk,” Aunt Marion sniffed. Her high, curled coiffure shook slightly with each movement.  “You will only be rewarded with lies.”  
  
“Oh?” Fisk inclined his head, thin brows raised in pious horror.  
  
Aunt Marion pursed her lips, “She and the boy are the children of my late husband’s sister. Liars both – why, the discomfort they’ve caused…”  
  
“Deceit is a sad fault in a child and sure sign of wickedness.” Fisk’s collar pulled tight against the excess folds of his neck, bulging with his odd intonation. “Tell me, Miss Page, do you know where the wicked go after death?”  
  
“A pit of fire, sir.”  
  
“And would you care to visit that pit and be burned for eternity?”  
  
“No, sir.”  
  
“What must you do to avoid it?”  
  
Young Karen paused; considering; preferring to please her own quick mind over judging the audience.  
  
“I must keep in good health and not die.”  
  
The visit did not improve after that.  
  
From her first day at Lowood, Karen labored over slates and lessons in French, catechism, geography, manners and other virtues required of better-born women than her. She rose each morning in the dark, washed in icy water, and dressed for the day in muslin and rough-spun wool. She remained silent to avoid beatings and received beatings when she could not stay silent in the face of unfair treatment of her fellow students.  
  
Her brother Kevin had admired that in her.  
  
Kevin: too weak to make a journey like the one Karen made to Lowood. Too sickly to even leave his bed under the eaves in Burlington. Kevin: only a year older than her, but smaller than Karen and thinner besides. Bessie the scullery maid had done her best to keep him comfortable, but when Aunt Marion arranged to send one Page away it was clear there would be no plans made for the second, diminishing child.  
  
Aunt Marion had loathed the idea of his sickness spreading to her family and had announced the cool air of the upper rooms would be best for his clotted lungs. It was akin to declaring his death before his shroud could be stitched.  
  
The night before departing for Lowood, Karen climbed from her small garret to the servant’s hall where her brother lay in a sagging rope bed. Since learning she would be sent away, Kevin had faded as a cut flower in a lightless room. When Karen crept to his bedside on her final night, he clasped an icy hand over her wrist and made a small tutting sound.  
  
“Karen, you are freezing. Come here.”  
  
She had slid into the bed beside him, gathering his hands in hers and whispering plans of escape. He raised her hands to his lips and kissed his little sister’s knuckles with esteem.  
  
“You’ll do nothing like that.”  
  
“But I- “  
  
“No,” his whisper was severe, “You stand a better chance of making a life of your own if you find a way to survive. You have such a passion for living, Karen. You must get away.”  
  
“What about you? I’ll come back for you. We’ll leave together and, and…” it was late and Karen had no energy left to plot. Kevin tilted his forehead to hers and made a quiet shushing.  
  
“No more of this. I feel as if I could sleep. Will you stay, sister? I’ll miss you near me…”  
__  
  
“Take care to copy down a few tales of your own.” Miss Dumont says softly, so not to draw the attention of the other staff. Karen nods, covering the older woman’s hand with her own –the first and only touch she has dared offer anyone in over a decade.  
  
Emerging into the gravel courtyard becomes a rebirth. The sun feels brighter despite the heavy October sky, and the sounds of the yard around her are sharp as crystal.  
__  
  
  
The southern road is pitted and rocky. It makes the coach pitch and sway so violently Karen must brace herself or be heaved onto other passengers on the bench. She will travel nearly a week along the lakes and into the rolling hills of New York State. At the southern-most tip of the island of Manhattan awaits Thornfield House and a new life.  
  
Rain seems to follow the road, and they must halt twice due to treacherous mud. The bloom of adventure quickly withers and, on her fourth day of travel, Karen finds herself searching the roadside trees for sprites, bears or highwaymen. When they stop on the final evening she opens Miss Dumont’s journal and begins to write something to fit her mood.  
  
_The storm gathered like a rage over the city. Dark clouds stretched across the fields and burrowed deep into the horizon. There would be rain and floods. There would be destruction._  
_The thief pulled his hat over his eyes and urged his horse on to the road. The knives in his belt and the gun at his knee were all the protection he would need for what was to come._  
  
On the following afternoon, the coach at last rumbles through Riverdale and passes into the final chain of hills. At a lone crossroad, the wheels grind to a halt and the driver raps on the roof of the cab.  
  
“Miss, this will be your change for Manhattan.”  
  
Karen is handed down from the coach and steps out into the chill afternoon. The land opens onto endless forests that rise and roll along small hills. Everywhere blazes the fires of autumn – riots of red and gold in the trees, mirror-bright gullies of rainwater, and dark bands of earth stripe the empty fields.  
  
The driver hauls down her trunk and tugs the brim of his wool hat with a terse “Good luck” as a farewell. The equipage rattles off into the growing fading afternoon, dips below the far hill and is lost from view.  
  
Karen is alone in the quietest place she has known in her life. Wind pushes over the hill and buffets her shoulders, the sound in her ear like a demon breathing. She wraps herself tightly in her heavy traveling cloak and sits on the lid of her trunk, opening her journal again.  
  
_The thief stood tall in the icy midnight mud, his pistol still smoking from discharge. Sprawled on the filthy tar before him lay a dead man twice his size and musculature, a pair of vicious swords crossed across his bloodied chest. Drawing a hand across his own throat, the thief could feel terrible pain where the giant’s hands had wrapped his neck in a vise-like grip just moments before._  
“You shall snuff out no more lives.” The thief croaked, then slid the pistol into its cradle at his hip.  
  
Somewhere out of view a hawk calls, crows answer, and the distant jingle of a coach rises. Karen straightens and puts a steadying hand on the trunk. She shakes her head to forget the tale and its danger. The coach pulls into view, its lamps swinging hoops of dim light against the ground. The man on the box at the top pulls his team to a halt and steps down to greet Karen.  
  
  
The dank chill of Lowood’s dormitory rises around her. She can smell the cold ash of a long-dead fire, unwashed bodies and the humid mold of rotten wood. Coughs and sighs echo from sleepers in their cots, marked by an occasional cry or exclamation. A hand, icy as death, closes around her wrist and a thin voice she knows well speaks into the blackness.  
  
“ _You have such a passion for living…”_  
  
The coach lurches down into the city. They cross the river, an travel down through Harlem into the Upper East Side. There are lights and people everywhere moving through the muddy streets as if it were day. Karen sees open doors of saloons between darkened shop fronts; matchstick sellers and lamp men; coaches and men mounted on horses that paw and huff clouds of steam in the late-night cold. Sam does not stop but cannot go faster.  
  
 It is eleven in the evening by the time they make their way through Greenwich and midnight when the coach halts in front of a high-stooped stone house in St. John’s parish park. The large, looming estate is punctuated by windows that glow beacon-bright. Just inside the great double doors a blocky, ruffled matron stands with a lamp lifted high overhead. The woman makes a loud cooing in welcome as the coachman opens Karen’s door and helps her down onto the kerb.  
  
“Miss Page I presume? How do you do, my dear?” she passes the lamp to a maid and takes Karen’s hands in her own.  
  
“I’m Mrs. Nelson. Welcome to Thornfield House. Come in and sit by the fire.”  
  
The older woman glows with efficiency and warmth. The house may have seemed imposing upon approach, but inside it is bright and well-furnished. Mrs. Nelson conducts Karen along a colorless but grand front hall to a sitting room deep in the house. There, she takes shawl, cloak, gloves and bonnet with the practiced ease of a lifetime welcoming guests. The older woman keeps up a comfortable, if one-sided, conversation throughout.  
  
“I am afraid you must have had a tedious ride. Sam drives so slowly; you could have added another day to your journey! Do draw nearer the fire, child. November is no time at all to suffer the chill. You’ve brought luggage with you, my dear?”  
  
“Yes, ma’am,” Karen replies and is immediately overrun by Mrs. Nelson’s chatter.  
  
“I’ll see it carried up. Are you hungry, Miss Page? I’ll have Dinah to cut a sandwich or two.”  
  
A welcome warmth fills Karen’s spirit. She is immediately comfortable in the presence of Mrs. Nelson, who clearly runs the home with a deft hand. Servants dip in and out of the room like swallows in a barn. Dinah, in neat cap and apron, delivers thick sandwiches and a pot of tea. Mrs. Nelson seats herself in the armchair opposite Karen and resumes her knitting, the tide of words flowing strong.  
  
Sipping from a nearly translucent teacup, Mrs. Nelson continues as Karen takes in the room.  
The woman has a cheery opinion of most things; the weather; the folk of St. John’s parish; the purchase and development of land throughout the lower end of Manhattan. There are framed ink portraits on walls covered by flower-patterned paper. The furniture froths with lacy covers knit by the woman herself. A small piano-forte stands in the corner, though no sheet music lays in its tray. When Mrs. Nelson pauses to sip her tea, Karen takes the moment to interject.  
  
“Will I have the pleasure of meeting Miss Nelson this evening?”  
  
The teacup pauses under Mrs. Nelson’s hands. “I’m sorry, my dear?”  
  
“My pupil. Will I meet her tonight?”  
  
This draws a chuckle from Mrs. Nelson, who sets her teacup and saucer on the side table and takes up her knitting again. “You mean Miss Lieberman! Little Leo we call her – Leo Lioness. No, I have no family here.”  
  
Karen gives a small, confused smile, though Mrs. Nelson does not see the emotion of it. She continues her narrative, needles clicking: “I am glad you’ve come. Thornfield is a fine old home. The family has held this property since the Dutch! Respectable, but quite lonesome, particularly come winter. Ah, but we’ve had such wonderful developments. Miss Leo arrived in September. Children make a home, I believe. Now you’ve come, Miss Page, and the house shall feel quite full!”  
  
Karen nods in agreement, then in weariness. The comfort of the room, the food and conversation have reduced what was left of her energy to embers. She lifts a hand to stifle a yawn and catches herself before stumbling into embarrassment. Mrs. Nelson, cheeks rosy and demeanor even rosier, leans across the rug to pat Karen’s knee.  
  
“Bless you! I do go on. Come, I’ll show you to your bedroom. I had Dinah prepare something at the back of the house – thought you’d prefer it to the front chambers. They can be so solitary.”  
  
Karen wonders if it _is_ possible to feel alone with such a large personality in the house. She agrees that she is indeed tired from the journey and appreciates Mrs. Nelson’s thoughtful choice. The pair climb a set of servant’s stairs to a broad hall that winds along the spine of the home. Rich wood paneling in the ancient style brings the space in close and swallows the single light of Mrs. Nelson’s lamp.  
  
Arriving at a door nearly imperceptible from the paneled walls, Mrs. Nelson ushers Karen in with a cheerful narrative on the age of the room, the design of the fireplace and the furnishings chosen years before by Mistress Castle. There is a beat of silence as Mrs. Nelson gathers herself – she has spoken out of turn.  
  
“Forgive me, Miss Page.”  
  
Karen is taken from her study of the space – it is close and comfortable; brightly polished and well-loved furniture; an overstuffed chair beside the fire; a substantial desk under a wide window and a bed piled high with soft quilts – to the sudden silence of her hostess.  
  
Mrs. Nelson brings fingertips to the scarf knotted at her chest in self-chastisement. “We don’t often speak of Mrs. Castle, even amongst ourselves.”  
  
Puzzled, Karen tilts her head, “Mrs. Castle?”  
  
“The departed wife of master Castle, of course.”  
  
“…Then Thornfield is not yours?”  
  
“Mistress of Thornfield?” Mrs. Nelson offers a small laugh of disbelief, “Gracious, child, what an idea. No, I’m the housekeeper.”  
  
Mrs. Maria Castle, continues Mrs. Nelson, was the beloved wife of Master Francis Castle, Thornfield’s owner and its sole heir. He was the only child of a retired captain with a shipping fortune fed by Lake Ontario. The son disappointed his father greatly by refusing to enter university, enlisting in the military instead. There was a thawing of relations when young Castle, freshly commissioned, arrived to Thornfield with Maria. She was charming, bright, and the spark of life needed for the quiet home.  
  
“She made this place her own. Such a sweet girl. Sometimes, I –” Mrs. Nelson catches sight of Karen’s questioning stare. She shakes herself briefly to clear away ghosts and shades, and pats Karen’s arm.  
  
“Apologies, I’ve gone on again. I’ll take my leave – I do hope you’ll be comfortable.”  
  
Mrs. Nelson’s unexpected turn steals a moment of warmth. The two women say their final good nights and Karen is left to dress for bed. Before she settles to sleep, Karen finds herself revisiting the words of Mrs. Nelson. An unseen master, departed souls, and a new question: what sort of place is this, really?


	2. A field for their efforts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I believe in the strength of these walls,” Karen replies, “Whatever is out there will need to work hard to get in here.”

Morning arrives with November birdsong and silvery light in the window. Hair loose, nightgown rumpled, Karen opens her eyes and takes in her new surroundings. The journey was not a dream. She is truly free of Lowood and poised to begin a new life.

Putting her feet down on the deep, clean rug, Karen wanders to the window to take in the view she had missed the night before. The house stands along a line of similar, fine homes, though none as tall. Her window looks down onto Thornfield Lane where carriages and deliveries are kept out of sight of homeowners.

Karen breathes fog against the glass, rubs her fingers in a circle to clear the pane again. She finds a particular delight in the quiet nature of the alley, and the walled garden and small arboretum she can see below. The place is surely grand, and more finely appointed than her previous address.

The sound of the door startles her. She turns quickly to see Dinah, the maid, entering with a breakfast tray. The two exchange quiet greetings. When Dinah departs Karen begins to dress for the day.

___

Miss Leo is joy made flesh. The girl greets Karen with a wide smile and a laugh of delight, “Miss Page, you’re here at last!”

There is a large stack of serious books at Leo’s elbow, two dolls propped against them, and papers spread along the school table. Dispensing with formality before it was ever entertained, Karen’s pupil takes her hand and leads her around to the far side for a better view of her work. Karen is then treated to a whirlwind of questions Leo has held in stock for her new teacher.

“Did you speak English in Vermont, Miss? Does your family?”

“English, my dear. I was instructed in French by a very accomplished tutor.”

“Have you any brothers or sisters, Miss?”

“Indeed.”

“Do you prefer _Masterman Ready_ to _The Swiss Family Robinson_? I do! The adventure is so thrilling, but Mister Marryat does go on for such a long time about the Bible. _The Children of the New Forest_ was a bit better. Too bad none of them are Americans…”

Karen grins under the flood of Leo’s words. Much like Mrs. Nelson, Leo appears to have saved much of her conversation for someone she considers a contemporary. It takes most of the morning to settle the girl, and by tea time the pair are involved in a lesson on Atlantic shipping routes.

“That is how Master Castle’s father secured his fortune, I believe.”

“Your grandfather?” Karen supplies, and is greeted with a look of genuine surprise.

“Who, Miss?”

“Master Castle, the shipping captain?” For the second time in two days, Karen finds herself on the receiving end of a look of surprise.

“Miss, do you mean Mister Frank’s father?”

Karen is unsettled. She puts the atlas down on the table and turns fully to face Leo. “It seems there are a few things left to learn. Who, exactly, is this Mister Frank?”

The story is an epic drama in Leo’s hands. Her papa, Professor David Liberman, is a celebrated mind and a key member of American military intelligence. Her mother, Sarah, is a great beauty and philanthropist. Her brother Zachary… is older than her. The Libermans and Castles were deeply intertwined. Leo’s papa and Mister Frank served together in various heroic adventures for the military, whilst Leo’s mother and Missus Maria had lobbied for equality and fairness for the unfortunate.

Leo herself was bosom friends with Miss Lisa, the eldest Castle child. The pair had been inseparable from an early age and had spent many happy days in the halls and garden of Thornfield. (Zachary and Francis Junior were also friends, but boys are incapable of similar essential connections. Obviously.)

Then, disaster. During a summer retreat, papa received word of a terrible tragedy. The Castle family were swept up in a bout of influenza that took first Frankie and Lisa, then Missus Maria all in a few days. Papa had not shared the details, but Leo knew from the tears on his cheeks the misadventure was tragic. Mister Castle alone survived but was changed.

“How so?” Karen prompts. Leo’s countenance grows dark and the girl distracts herself with a sketch of steam engine gears.

The girl goes quiet, her gaze distant, “He just was, Miss.”

Karen does not push further. Leo has shown herself to be bright and precocious, but this moment is a reminder that she is also a child who has suffered loss. She smooths her hand along Leo’s arm and gives a small smile when they meet gazes.

“Did you know that steam can power a ship across the world?”

“Yes, Miss. A steamship took mama and papa away without me.”

The silence that follows is weighted and dark. Karen’s training is all that can save the moment, and so she brings Leo to her feet and suggests a tour of the house.

Together, they make a map of Thornfield's floors, marking out points of interest and areas to explore in the future. When supper arrives, the pair sit close by the schoolroom fireplace and plan the next day. If the cold deepens, they will experiment with saucers of objects left on the window ledge to see what will freeze first. If there is rain, they will visit the kitchen to learn bread making.

“And if it is sunny, Miss?”

Karen twists her mouth in a thoughtful grin. “If there is sun… and no mud? I should like you to show me this garden you love so much.”

 _And,_ she thinks, _to share how you came to be under the roof of this widowed family friend who himself is not present._

____

 _“Villain!” the thief declared, his voice a raw and frightening bellow. “I will have justice for your transgression.”_  
_The enemy turned to face the thief, a terrible smile on his deeply scarred face._  
_“No, cur,” the man replied, “I will best you now to show you the meaning of humiliation.”_  
_The pair circled, feinted, and scowled. The thief brought out his knives from their sheaths at his sides. Blades flashed in the dull light of the empty alley. With a deep roar, he lunged forward, the blackness of the night matched only with the blackness of his heart._

Karen sets her pen down on the desk and rubs her hands. Her knuckles crack. She looks to the porcelain clock on the mantelpiece and groans. It is nearly midnight and she will need sleep if she plans to keep up with Leo tomorrow.

The evening had been enjoyable, if quiet. Still accustomed to the busy evening noises of Lowood, Karen had found herself nodding off in the close and pleasant silence of Mrs. Nelson’s drawing room. Leo had read to them for a short time before departing with her nursemaid for bed. Afterward, Mrs. Nelson told her own story of discovering moth holes in the drapes of a side room. Her horror seemed nearly as dramatic as Leo’s storytelling.

“The whole of the bottom shall need to be repaired. The expense will be abominable, but I’m sure Mr. Castle will allow it.”

“Mrs. Nelson,” Karen grasps at the pause in the housekeeper’s narration, “When will Mr. Castle return?”

At this Mrs. Nelson pauses. Mr. Castle’s work is still tied to the military and takes him to Washington DC, Ohio and far into the South. Since the loss of Mrs. Castle and the children, he has come to the city less and less.

“But what about Leo? Her family –“

Mr. Castle had been the one to install Leo in the home. Her parents had been called away so quickly that there had not been time for Dr. Liberman and Mrs. Sarah to travel with her up the coast. Leo’s brother Zachary was in a boarding school near Washington DC, preparing to enter the newly-established Virginia Military Institute.

Mrs. Nelson thought back to that September afternoon when Mr. Castle arrived in the front hall, unannounced, with the little girl at his side.

“Oh, Miss Page, the tears in her eyes!”

Mr. Castle pushed Leo forward into Mrs. Nelson’s path, saying “She’s a smart girl. She’ll need a teacher to keep her in line.” Then he turned abruptly and vanished into the street. A letter arrived just before Miss Page to say that he would be in Louisiana through the winter.

“What does he do, exactly, Mrs. Nelson?”

“Oh dear, that would be telling.”

Karen excuses herself, claiming a not-untruthful exhaustion. Returning to her own quarters had been bliss. Dinah had laid a fire and turned down the bed. As Karen moved about the room, undressing and laying garments neatly aside, she caught sight of her journal and pen.

Hours later, she feels the results of her distraction. Pages of dialogue and wandering adventure are the result, along with stiff fingers and a cramped hand. The pages shift under her hand.

_Bloodied, body bruised, the thief pulled himself to standing and gazed out across the rooftops of the city. His hands were tacky with thickened blood and filth. Dirt was ground into the fine creases at his eyes. It had been a long night of battles, and there would be more to come. Sore and in need of respite, he turned back to seek shelter until the next altercation._

The darkness beyond her window mirrors back the lowering fire and waiting bed behind her. She slips under the blankets and is asleep in moments.

____

November slopes into December. Frost becomes snow. In the streets, slush builds and cakes the underside of carriages that pass below the front windows of Thornfield.

But Leo’s curiosity is a bright fire and the schoolroom its hearth. Together, governess and student embark on a broad path of learning. Karen realizes quickly that the girl will not be satisfied with rote lectures preferred by Lowood’s instructors. Inspired by Leo’s energy, Karen introduces lessons that feed her own interests.

Over the month the room has become equal parts laboratory, workshop, library, and study. A late-season frog found in the garden mud holds court from a large glass vessel by the high windows. A small mechanized horse and cart, innards mapped on sheaves of paper pinned to the wall, lays in half construction at one end of the table. Closest to the fireplace are two comfortable chairs where pupil and governess are now settled. Karen reads from Marryat’s _The King’s Own_ and Leo copies down words to review later. It is nearly tea time.

When Karen looks up to remind her pupil of the time, she finds the girl asleep. There is an urge borne from Karen’s years at Lowood to startle Leo awake with a chastisement. The inclination is like an animal bite. Karen shakes her head to clear the gloom from her mind. No child in her care will ever bear that fear and pain.

Karen stands quietly and wraps her shawl about her, deciding to seek out Leo’s nurse.

Adele, a doting French Canadian, is in the kitchen starching petticoats. She is chatting in halting English with Cook and Dinah as they peel turnips for the dinner. Sam sits near the fire repairing a bridle bit which makes a soft jingle as it turns in his hands.

When Adele sees Karen in the door she starts and nearly drops her iron.

“Steady, girl,” Cook supplies, leaning back to stretch her from her own task. She indicates to a folded newspaper that lays among the peels on the kitchen table, its topmost headline visible under spreading vegetable damp:

_“CEASE!” BEG CITY CRIMINALS TO ARCHITECT OF NIGHT OF TERROR!_

“Miss Page, we're talking over the news. Adele doesn’t like the state of affairs. What do you think of such violence?”

 _Violence?_ Karen takes the paper by its dry corner and looks over the Herald’s wobbly print.  
  
A bloodbath in the docklands west of 11th Avenue in the notorious Five Points section of the city. A coven of fiends murdered as they committed acts of arson and thievery. Twelve dead – each known to the night watch and city constables. No witnesses could be found to report the perpetrator. Violence indeed. She feels eyes on her and schools a look of shock on her face.

“It is dreadful. Adele, est-ce que votre coeur est écoeuré par ceci?”

(Leo’s own excellent French is a result of a close relationship with Adele. The pair converse happily in bubbling vowels and rolling consonants. When Mrs. Nelson learned of Karen’s own proficiency she sighed with relief, “At last, an interpreter.”)

Adele replies in French that yes, her heart is sickened. She adds that her own village had not experienced a morning’s worth of the headlines generated by New York City in one hundred years. Karen tuts in agreement, then asks in English if the nurse would take her charge a few hours early today. Adele nods, replaces her irons in the hearth and departs.

“You’re a cool one, Miss Page,” Sam says softly. “Thought country girls like you and Adele would be terrified as a piece.”

“I believe in the strength of these walls,” Karen replies, eyeing the newspaper. “Whatever is out there will need to work hard to get in here.”

Leo has been whisked away by the time Karen returns to the school room. The space is empty, though the fire still burns high in the grate. Karen slowly moves about the room tidying away loose papers and tucking books back into their shelves. Spying a folded sheet between book spines on a higher shelf, she plucks the paper down to eye level.

 _Dearest Papa,_  
_Mama says I must practis often if I wish to write like Miss Finely or Mister Anderson. You are away so I write to you to practis and ask after you. Are you well, papa? Do you miss your Lisa and Frankie? Mama misses you terrible. What is the Missisipi like? Mama says you are keeping the peace for the president. I miss you…_

The handwriting is shaky and wide, looping with an inexperienced but persistent hand.  
  
_Of course_.  
  
This schoolroom was used by the Castle family in better days. Karen feels as though she has stepped on a grave. She folds the letter and tucks it into a volume of children's poetry, then slips the book back onto the shelf. If she ever meets the master of Thornfield, she will find a way to return this to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shouts out to the luminous [Skasis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skasis/pseuds/Skasis) for her awesome insight on gothic fiction and betamazingness. 
> 
> More is on the way, including Frank's first appearance! Thoughts, comments, suggestions, thirst-posts? I'm on Tumblr at all hours of the day @FrankCastlesTankTop.


	3. The roughness of the traveller

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _There is a shriek and clattering hooves. Karen circles, crashing directly into the dense block of a horse’s massive chest. She bounces back, stumbles on her feet but keeps her balance. The same cannot be said for the animal or its rider. With a roar, both man and horse reel back and land with a discomforting thump._
> 
> _There is a beat of silence, followed by a shout._
> 
> _“DAMN YOU, BEAST!”_

The December afternoon holds darkness like a grudge. Leo will not return to the common room for supper. Adele has determined the girl to be melancholy and must spend the evening at play. Karen suspects Adele’s own worry has made her homesick or frightened, and Leo’s presence will lift her spirits. Karen now finds herself at odd ends for the remainder of the day. She takes another half hour tidying the school room, not wanting to waste the fine heat of the fire, or the privacy.  
  
Her mind flickers back to the letter and its subject. An absent father – beloved if she’s to believe Mrs. Nelson’s words. Changed now, if she believes Leo. The rest of the servants have very little to say of their master, or in general. As a governess, Karen is above them in station and so not privy to much of their conversations. Mrs. Nelson keeps herself quite busy with the home – it is in a constant state of readiness for Master Castle whenever he decides to return, and so requires constant upkeep, dusting and linen rotations, “Dinah would run the same eight sets of sheets to rags if I was not vigilant.”  
  
And so, Karen will spend the remainder of the day with a little ghost between the lines of a forgotten letter. It is not the first one she has met. For the first time in weeks, she finds herself walking Lowood’s dark halls, shivering in its unforgiving cold. And there, behind a door, waits a white little body under a thin grey blanket. Its ankles and wrists are covered, but she will know the sharp definition of their bones.  
  
_“Karen, you are freezing. Come here.”_  


“Miss Page?”  
  
Mrs. Nelson’s voice stirs the silence and shocks Karen as acutely as static discharge.  
  
“Mrs. Nelson! Apologies, I only – “  
  
The housekeeper is in the doorway of the school room. When Karen meets her, the older woman’s look of worry melts into a sympathetic smile. “Oh child, you were somewhere very far away, weren’t you? I’ve been calling you, and there you were staring out that window.”  
  
Karen looks up and finds she has come to rest at the tall window that overlooks the garden and Hay Lane behind. It is a quiet path and used only for the neighborhood’s few local coaches. She wonders how long she has been caught in her reverie.  
  
“This time of year can be difficult,” Mrs. Nelson offers, “Especially if it’s your first so far from home.”  
  
Karen replies with a smile as if Mrs. Nelson has guessed her heart. This broadens the matron’s own happy look, and she draws a packet of letters from under her apron.  
  
“Now, fresh air is a great cure for anything – so they say. Will you bring these to the post office? You should be home in time for tea.”  
  
___  
  
The moon rises in twilight over the rooftops of St. John’s circle. Karen has pulled her cloak’s heavy collar around her neck and burrowed deep under the brim of her bonnet.  
  
The walk had offered some exercise for her wandering mind. She had allowed herself time to look in a dressmaker’s window at gloves and shawls. There are carts in the street selling buttons, ribbons and fans. Karen makes it as far as the third stall before she pauses at a young girl no older than Leo with grubby fingers and a tray of costume brooches; paste buckles and cloudy gems laid carefully on muslin.  
  
“Something for your bonnet, Miss?”  
  
The girl is small and thin. She looks hungry and anxious. Karen speaks quietly, “Have you eaten today?”  
  
“I eat when I’ve sold something, Miss.”  
  
“And have you sold anything?”  
  
The girl bites her chapped lower lip and shakes her head. A seller two carts away calls to Karen to leave the trash where it lies and shop with quality. This raises a red flush in Karen’s cheeks. She snaps a sharp look at the merchant and, turning back to the child, fishes a penny from her reticule.  
  
“I know what it means to be hungry – food shouldn’t be a condition of sale.”  
  
The child pauses. She searches Karen’s face then plucks the coin from her gloved palm and nods. Karen returns the gesture and stands. As she stalks past the merchant she gives him a glare that makes the man pale. The adventure is over, the fun of browsing has evaporated.  There’s nothing left for her here.  
  
Karen has left her return too late. The sky is deepening and she must hurry home before full darkness descends. In her mind’s eye, she sees the route back – a long trek through main streets or a short, nipping path along cart alleys and narrow lanes. If she stays on the main road, night will have risen long before she arrives back. If she dares her luck, the shortcut will see her home just after sunset.  
  
Karen pulls her the cloak closer around her shoulders, draws her mouth into a firm line, and turns down the first of six crossing sub-streets. She hurries, chasing the fading light with swift steps. There is mud in the cobbles and moss grows in the brick footers and stoops of the buildings. Above her a handful of sparrows dip and circle, chasing the sun back into the bay beyond.  
  
Then a shriek and clattering hooves. Karen circles, crashing directly into the dense block of a horse’s massive chest. She bounces back, stumbles on her feet but keeps her balance. The same cannot be said for the animal or its rider. With a roar, both man and horse reel back and land with a discomforting thump.  
  
There is a beat of silence, followed by a shout.  
  
“DAMN YOU, BEAST!”  
  
Karen claps both hands over her mouth to stifle a cry. She flushes hot, recognizing the spats and wool coat of a gentleman. He lies in an unceremonious heap with one leg under the horse. His hat is on its side a few steps from her foot.  
  
The gentleman lifts himself on an elbow and stares over the bulk of the horse as it heaves itself up. He scowls, a thunderous look made darker by his heavy black beard and fierce brows. Barking echoes down the lane walls and a thickset grey dog with broad shoulders and a great, square head skids into the middle of the scene. His horse and dog caper, raising a din that clatters against the tight brick.  
  
“Are you injured, sir?” Karen, at last, finds her voice. She reaches lamely to offer a hand, although the man has already begun to right himself. He grunts, then yelps in pain as he tries his ankle. It will not hold.  
  
“Where did you come from?” his voice is gravel and ice. Karen is on edge. She pulls her hand back and steps against the far wall, mind racing.  
  
“Thornfield House. I am the governess.”  
  
His glare softens only above his nose where his brows knit. His eyes are large and dark, heavy-lashed and snapping sparks. Bruises lace along his cheekbones and run beneath the thick beard to disappear under a clean white cravat. The tips of his large ears are red. He may be handsome beneath the beard. He may very well be no gentleman at all.  
  
Karen’s imagination flashes wild headlines of the unknown assailant at the Five Points docks. She has nothing for protection – she curses herself for not at least picking up a rock.  
  
“I’ll go for help.” Karen turns, but the man makes a strained rumble that stops her cold. No, cold is not right for it. His sound raises heat along her arms despite the winter wind. The dog whines, crowding against his master who pushes the blunt muzzle away with annoyance, “Pilot, get down!”  
  
Then, to Karen: “Take the bridle and bring him here.” He nods towards the horse, which is less animal than a saddled mountain. Its eyes roll and it prances heavily on anvil-like hooves. Karen gasps, reaches for the lead, but a fear of being trampled stops her from taking hold.  
  
The man sighs. He shifts on the cold cobbles and loops a long arm over the dog, giving it a reassuring scratch before planting his hands in the mud. With a groan like wood splitting he heaves himself upright enough to catch hold of an iron pipe running from a low window nearby. He staggers, stands, then wobbles awkwardly and wheels out with a shout. The ankle is useless and she cannot bring him the horse.  
  
“Help me to him, then.”  
  
Karen feels the steel in her own glare stop him dead. The man, half covered in mud and losing his balance to the overzealous dog, gives a cheerless laugh at his predicament.  
  
“If you would so kindly assist me, ma’am.”  
  
Karen gives weight to the growing list of disasters facing her. Darkness has swallowed all but the farthest reaches of the sky and Hay Lane is now bathed in blue evening. There is a massive horse, nervous and pacing, between her and a strange man who arrived out of the shadows and now asks her to help him walk.  
  
_But,_ her racing mind supplies, _isn’t this how victims are lured to their deaths?_  
  
Now it is Karen’s turn to become ice. The bruises, the hardness of his tone, awaken a defensive instinct. Her gloved hands ball into tight fists. She told Cook this afternoon she believed in the strength of Thornfield’s walls. Now she would do what she could to return to them.  
  
Pilot, stump of a tail in motion as he leaps against his master’s knee, does diffuse this scene. Karen meets the man’s gaze. A shock, perhaps a reckoning, lights between them and Karen is spurred to act.  
  
Uncurling one fist, Karen steps forward and offers an open hand. The man slowly reaches his arm across her shoulders as if calming a panicked horse. He takes a moment to settle his full weight against her. Karen staggers; she loses her footing and he pitches forward; his unused hand closes over her waist. His fingers dig into her flesh.  
  
Acting on instinct alone, Karen swings her free arm in a tight arc and buries her fist in his stomach. He makes a sound like a fireplace bellows being compressed. He stumbles back, groaning, and clutches his middle. The dog is climbing his knees with yelps of worry.  
  
Karen seizes her moment to flee, running as fast as she can to the end of the lane, into the open street beyond and then in a straight line for the house. Her feet pound at the packed earth of the road and her too-tight boots bite in protest.  
  
Karen’s lungs are ready to burst. Sweat gathers under her arms and across her forehead. She pulls to a halt at the service entrance by the kitchen and pounds the flats of her hands against the door. Dinah answers and gives a bewildered shout as Karen collapses against her, arms hugging the maid tightly as if drowning.  
  
Within the half hour, Karen has been calmed with a glass of port and a compress that Cook refreshes in cold water under the tap. Dinah and Adele sit at the broad kitchen table, each with a soothing hand on Karen.  
  
“You were saved by the Almighty in that alley, Miss Page,” Dinah announces, then crosses herself. A fresh newspaper is folded between them on the table. Its latest headline trumpets in all capitals: “CONSTABLES SEEK NEW AVENUES IN SEARCH OF FIVE POINTS FIEND”  
  
When Karen’s story has been told three times, and before Cook asks her to begin a fourth rendition, Mrs. Nelson appears at the dining room entrance. The housekeeper wears a look a look of disbelief beneath an overwrought mob cap decked with ruffles. The headgear matches an equally ornate shawl pinned across her shoulders with a heavy jet brooch. The look is a surprising one for Mrs. Nelson, who prefers starched cottons and simple wool day to day.  
  
“Gracious. Where have you been, Karen? Mr. Castle is here.”  
  
The kitchen staff scatters to action at the sound of his name. Karen wrings the compress a last time in her hand and stands, smoothing her dress absently. Mrs. Nelson narrows her eyes, appraising.  
  
“Go and change for the evening. He’s asked to meet you.”  
  
“But all my dresses are the same.” Karen has just two – each a shade of grey chosen for longevity rather than style.  
  
Mrs. Nelson makes a small fretting noise and bustles over to dust and pinch the fabric at Karen’s shoulders. “You must have something better? He’s in a foul mood; his horse fell in Hay lane. He’s terribly bruised – with a twisted ankle as well! Doctor Madani has been with him this half hour. Where have you been?”  
  
At that moment, a boxy shadow running low to the ground appears from behind the baize door. It is a barrel-chested grey dog with a notably square head and a stump of a tail. It spots Karen and gives a small whuff. The blood drains from her face.


	4. In clear embers, tracing a view

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Have you been discovered yet, Miss Page?”_
> 
> _“Sir?”_
> 
> _“As the vigilante of the Five Points docks.”_
> 
> _Karen cannot help the small laugh that escapes her. She gathers herself before replying, “The sad truth is it would take more than one vigilante to extinguish the crime of New York City. I have not the time to manage both Leo and villains.”_

As quickly as she’s able, Karen assembles something resembling formal attire and makes her way to Castle’s study at front of the house. As Mrs. Nelson warned when Karen first arrived, the environment is altogether frigid and unwelcoming. Deep gray walls rise high over polished wood floors. Dark prints hang like shadows and offset pale squares where neighboring frames have been removed. Along this main corridor a door stands open, and she can see the reflection of a fire in the high gloss of the deep-stained oak.   
It is Plato’s cave and she can perceive nothing beyond it.    
  
Karen catches sight of herself in the great hall mirror. Her cheeks flame pink and her eyes are stern. She has made a small concession to fashion, taking down her hair to braid the knot and loop two long locks over her ears. The pale gold of her hair will make do for her lack of a thin gold chain or even a brooch at her neck. The dress itself cannot be made any better or worse. She has pinned her only pelerine over the slope of her shoulders. The starched white linen does go some way to create contrast with the deep slate color of her dress.   
  
There are thoughts she cannot quiet that demand a route of escape. If she is dismissed for attacking the master of the house, where can she go? The long voyage back to Vermont is beyond her now. Karen thinks of stealing aboard a ship bound for England and starting life again as … As a woman without reference or family; _with_ a misplaced accent and _without_ two halfpennies to rub together. No, there is no way to plan for what may come after.   
There is only now.   
  
“If this ends tonight, so be it.” She whispers, voice brittle. Smoothing damp hands over the sharp pleats at her waist, Karen casts a final look to the mirror. Her reflection draws up to make full use of her height, and she steps inside.   
  
The room is small for all the grandeur of its trappings. Rich wood paneling and shelves of jewel-colored books consume what light is issued from the oil lamp on the table. Before the blazing hearth are two high-backed chairs in deep green velvet. The one farthest from the door is empty. Its nearer partner, back like a great wall, is occupied by an unseen body. The grey dog Pilot reclines between these chairs, eyes closed and ribs moving with the staccato breath of canine dreams.   
  
In the firelight, Karen makes out a well-bandaged foot propped on an ottoman. Leo sits on the cushion beside it, tying lengths of ribbon around the woefully swollen ankle. Mrs. Nelson sits just inside the door, her hands cradle a teacup and saucer that rattles when she spies Karen. Leo looks up to the sound and greets Karen with a smile.   
  
“Miss Page is here!”   
  
There is no response, only hears the shift of papers and the crackling fire. The moment goes so long, Karen steps back as if to leave.  
  
“You stay.”   
  
The voice is familiar and dark, deep and unfathomable. She shivers.   
  
As if approaching a lean wolf, Karen gives wide berth to the chair and its resident. She takes the seat opposite Mr. Castle. To see him now confirms some details remembered from the alley and rewrites others. Castle’s beard is dark and his hair – too-long and curling – falls across his forehead; large serious eyes and a humorless set to his (admittedly plush) mouth. The bruises along the points of his cheeks and across his neck are diminished in the room’s low light. He slouches in the seat – one long leg extended to accommodate the wrapped foot – but holds his body as an enthroned pasha or sultan. On his thigh rests an open book, its sheets of cream paper covered in familiar handwriting.   
  
Her journal.   
  
Karen feels exposed. She is aware of the bare skin of her throat and sympathizes with deer under the gaze of a wolf. Castle lifts his eyes to meet hers once before returning to the journal. Dinah arrives with a refreshed pot of tea on a tray accompanied by whiskey in a glass. The fire burbles, the dog snores lightly. Karen waits.  
  
“You’ve taken great pains with Leo,” he says, but does not look up. He continues, “She is bright, but wild without parents nearby.”  
  
The girl makes a squeak of protest but is silenced with a sharp look.   
  
“She’s made great strides under your care.”  
  
Karen accepts a cup of tea from Dinah and nods curtly. “Thank you, Mr. Castle.”  
  
He does not acknowledge her response, instead continuing to leaf through her book.   
“So, what is your story, Miss Page? “  
  
“My story?” She gives the open book a glance of panic. Does he mean to humiliate her by making her read the work out loud?   
  
Castle studies her from under his brows. He catches the dart of her eyes to the journal and closes it softly. Smoothing his hand over the cover he speaks in a softer tone.   
  
“Your background. Your people. Who permitted you to travel so far from home?”  
  
Karen, already on guard, bristles at the idea of being _permitted_ to do anything. She swallows, takes a firm hold of the cup and saucer in her lap, and fixes him with a look of frost.  
  
“I was brought up by my aunt, Mrs. Marion James of Burlington, in a house finer than this. I was sent to Lowood school and received a thorough education – better than I could hope for otherwise.”  
  
“And the rest of your family?”  
  
“Dead.”  
  
He does not flinch. “Do you remember them?”  
  
Neither does she. “No.”   
  
Castle lingers over this, scanning her for emotion. Karen remains stiff and upright, dealing back as harsh a look as he offers her.   
  
“And why are you not with Aunt Marion of Burlington?”  
  
In her ear comes a whisper: _“Stop these lies, wicked girl!”  
_  
Karen hears the sound of a hand meeting tender skin with force. Aunt Marion rises in her mind’s eye; brittle and greying at the temples, her be-ringed hand still curled from the strike. A sour-faced boy hovers behind her wide skirts – her cousin and the family’s only son. There had been an incident – an exchange of childish threats until Marion had entered the room. Karen feels the sting and throb as if freshly slapped. She shakes her head to return to the present.   
  
“She sent me away, sir.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
The past materializes again behind Karen’s eyes. Marion’s thin, high voice wraps tight around her.   
_  
Wicked girl!  
  
_ “She disliked me.”  
  
Castle looks to the fire. “What sort of education does Lowood afford?”  
  
“It is a charity school, Mr. Castle. Pupils are prepared for lives of service – “  
  
Mrs. Nelson nearly leaps from her seat to rescue the moment. She gives a strangled chuckle before launching in, “We’re quite grateful to have Miss Page. Her capabilities far outshone the breed of teachers here in the city. She is essential – “  
  
Castle waves a hand to silence Mrs. Nelson’s chatter, “Don’t bother. I’ll judge her myself,” and then, with a keen look to Karen, “I have Miss Page to thank for my injury.” He lifts the journal and uses it to indicate his wrapped ankle.   
  
Mrs. Nelson makes a puzzled sound and Leo looks down at his foot as if seeing it for the first time. Karen draws a deep breath through her nose and prepares for the axe to fall.   
  
“Have you been discovered yet, Miss Page?”  
  
“Sir?”  
  
“As the vigilante of the Five Points docks.”  
  
Karen cannot help the small laugh that escapes her. She gathers herself before replying, “The sad truth is it would take more than one vigilante to extinguish the crime of New York City. I have not the time to manage both Leo and villains.”  
  
At the mention of her name, and the humor of her governess’ words, Leo giggles. Castle catches a wisp of the girl’s mirth and cannot fight a smile, though he disguises it beneath his beard.  
  
“Leo Lioness,” Castle says, tapping the girl’s knees with Karen’s journal, “You must behave so Miss Page may take on true nee’re-do-wells. She has the fierceness for it.”  
  
And now he addresses the closed book itself, holding it halfway towards Karen. His eyebrows raise quizzically, “Miss Page, your pupil brought this to me. Did you write the tales inside?”  
  
There it is. Now he will moralize Karen’s firing as a tale of a woman too bold to be trusted with a young lady’s education. Instead, he remains silent, watching for Karen’s reply. She inhales deeply before responding.  
  
“Yes sir.”  
  
“Copied from newspapers?”  
  
“No sir, from my head alone.”  
  
He is surprised at this. She can see him rearrange his thoughts. Decide something.  
  
“That head on your shoulders?”  
  
He does not wait for her answer. He opens the book again and looks down at the page under his fingers. She can make out a figure sketched in the margins. She knows this passage well:  
  
_The thief’s knives sliced deep, cleaving flesh from bone with the barest touch. The thief took no pleasure in the sharpness of his blades, caring only that they would do as he needed. The assailant gave a fierce cry and staggered back, clutching the great wound.  Blood rushed over his fingers and stained the fabric of his uniform permanently. His injury would not allow him to lift the cutlass in his hand, though he slashed weakly._  
Foe defeated, the thief drew up one knife so its brilliant, fouled blade made an arc of light in its downstroke. A moment more, and the assailant’s head splashed into mud of the street. His body soon to follow.  


She wrote it six months previous in a cold and empty room under the eaves at Lowood. The mice and spiders in residence there had been company enough as Karen poured her tale onto page after page. The figure sketch ensured the positions of her combatants were correct.   
  
In the warmth of Castle’s study, that time seems more fiction than fact. She prepares for her final act. He will reveal her attack hours before, accuse her of corrupting Leo, and send her from the house with that deep roar she knows he holds in check.   


Instead, he takes a moment to study the book, then Leo’s face. Something flickers beneath the sternness and bruises. He meets Karen’s eyes a final time.   
  
“You may go.”  
  
Adele materializes and wastes no time in bundling Leo from the room. Mrs. Nelson clucks as she arranges crockery on a tray for Dinah to carry away. Karen spends the moment of activity gathering herself. Her legs are weak and her heart is still racing. When she finally stands and makes to sweep from the room, she is stopped at his armrest by the appearance of her journal.   
  
Karen pauses, accepts the volume without a word. Below the ringing in her ears she hears his voice, “There is an intensity here to be feared.”  
  
She does not answer, choosing instead to grip the journal to her waist and hurry from the room. When Karen sinks into bed later, she drowns in the emotions of the day. The anxiety of the last hour ebbs, resolving in a low thrum in her extremities. Castle _was_ different, as Leo and Mrs. Nelson promised. His demeanor had improved since the bellowing disaster in the lane, but only by the barest margin.  
  
His physicality, however...

 

She revisits the sight of the man reclined in his wing chair, legs spread and her book balanced on one strong thigh. In her memory his large, wide hand and long fingers stroke her words. The quirk of his eyebrow belies a smile that does not meet the bowed line of his mouth. And when she thinks again of his eyes she finds the dark heat of smoldering coals.   
  
The warmth that sizzles along the lines of Karen’s body has nothing to do with feather-filled duvets and a glowing hearth. Though it frightened her that evening, she conjures back the sensation of his arm over her shoulders. The weight of him against her. Karen turns in the bed, attempts to shut out these thoughts. But then he addresses her from his fireside throne.  
  
“There is an intensity to be feared.”  
  
The rumble of his voice is low; her hands are cool and quick; Karen trembles as she falls into a deep sleep.  
  



	5. To dismiss what importunes, and recall what pleases

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _  
> “Why did you lie to Mr. Russo?”_
> 
> _Leo’s lower lip begins to quiver, and tears gather on her lashes. She inhales sharply before pressing her lips together and squeezing her eyes shut. Fat tears escape and roll down her cheeks._
> 
> _“Leo, dear heart… why did you tell – “_
> 
> _“Mr. Castle told me to!” the words are depth charges shaking the deep. Leo begins to cry in earnest and throws herself against Karen’s shoulders._

Mr. Castle does not call for Karen again, though Leo sits with him a handful of times after the meeting. The master of the house is away most days and returns at hours that are at odds with schedules of his ward and staff. Mrs. Nelson assures Karen (and anyone who will listen) that she does her best, but the house is not at rights with a man at the helm who does not sit to a proper nightly dinner. Karen thinks this is just as well. Since their first encounter, and the night that followed, she worries he might call an audience, and she will spend it blushing.

Two weeks pass in relative quiet without further male disturbances. A warm break in the early winter cold gives Karen reason enough to order Leo into her coat and boots for a long walk on the waterfront at Battery Park. The pair arrives at the bottom of the stairs, kitted for the adventure ahead, and Karen stops short with a small squeak.

Mr. Castle stands with his back to them, his jacket and waistcoat disposed of, directing Sam and a second man in moving the massive mirror hung beside the main doors. The gilded scroll frame is twice the height of Leo and would reach well over Karen if she stood beside it. It is an ancient, silvered thing that reflects back the hall’s filtered daylight in soft, grey tones.

The two servants struggle with the weight of it, and it looks as though the thing will tip forward and crash to the floor. Castle leaps forward and pitches his shoulder beneath one substantial corner. In that instant, the muscles of his back are caught in a striation that makes the cords and tendons stand in sharp relief. His hair curls back over the open collar of his shirt and his trousers pull tight against his thighs.

Karen sucks in a breath as commotion rises around the men. Mrs. Nelson and Dinah appear from their tasks, crying out and putting their hands to the frame to assist in setting it right.   
She cannot be sure, but Karen thinks she catches a tiny movement as he looks back over his shoulder at her.

She grips Leo’s hand and pulls the girl out the door.

New York Bay is clear, and sellers have arranged their carts in a Christmas market. An organ grinder calls out favorite carols (and sells the sheet music pinned to a sandwich board beside him), and the air is threaded with his high alto. Leo supplies small change and the pair purchase a paper cone of chestnuts hot from the roasting tin.

They spend a few bright hours in the cold sunshine, discussing possible holiday gifts and plans for the first real snow soon to come. When the sun begins to dip along distant roofs, Karen and Leo stroll home under a haze of yuletide cheer.

Turning onto their home street, governess and pupil find two men awaiting entry on the front step of Thorne House. Both are tall and attired in well-cut suits; both are strikingly handsome. The nearer of the two, sporting a fashionable swoop of carefully coiffured hair, catches sight of Leo and steps down to the curb to greet her.

“Why, little Miss Leo!” He beams, showing even, white teeth. Karen notes Leo’s sudden silence, despite the man’s attention.

“My dear, I have not seen you in ages. Tell me are you well?”

“Quite well, Mr. Russo.”

He smiles wider and goes down on one knee to meet Leo at eye level. “Such wonderful news. I hear you’ve come to stay with Mr. Castle for a time. How are you faring under his roof?”

Leo shrugs, uncomfortable but amenable. “Very well, sir. I am happy here.”

Mr. Russo nods and straightens his legs. He turns to Karen, catching his waist with one palm and bowing slightly, “And who might this charming creature be?”

Karen offers an ingratiating smile, “Miss Page, Leo’s governess.”

His fine features crease as he grins again.

“I’m William Russo, Miss Page. Call me Billy. My fine friend here is Mr. Curtis Hoyle. We’re long-time compatriots of your employer, though his absence at the door seems a repudiation of the facts.”

“We’re hoping to see him, Miss Page,” Mr. Hoyle supplies from the top step. His broad form is as solid as the columns that frame the front door. There is something considered about Mr. Hoyle, who remains in place and still – aware, it seems, of Mr. Russo’s overactive display.

“Unfortunately, gentlemen, I cannot be sure if Mr. Castle is at home today,” Karen takes Leo’s hand firmly and begins up the steps. “His schedule can be erratic.”

“Sounds like Frank,” Mr. Hoyle murmurs with a wry twist of the mouth. Then, to Karen, he continues, “We served with Mr. Castle at Rock River a few years back. He’s never been one for social calls.”

“Unless it was neck-deep in enemy ranks with two knives at his disposal,” Mr. Russo waggles his brows scandalously. The fine hairs on the back of Karen’s neck rise.

“Bill,” Mr. Hoyle warns, glaring briefly at Mr. Russo.

Undaunted, Mr. Russo takes the steps two at a time back to Karen and Leo. He clasps the little girl’s shoulder and offers another ready smile. “We’ll be on our way, ladies. But it was most pleasant to find you here. Tell me, Leo dear, how are your parents?”

Leo is now bristling under his touch, but she does not buckle. “They are well, Mr. Russo. They are enjoying Europe very much.”

“And your brother?”

“He enjoys it with them.”

As if cued from the footlights, the front door swings back to reveal Mrs. Nelson. She looks between Karen and Leo on the step, then to Mr. Russo and Mr. Hoyle. She recognizes the men and casts her arms out wide to them both.

“Bill, Curtis! Imagine you both calling this afternoon – how wonderful!”

Karen takes the opportunity to guide Leo past the housekeeper into the main hall. She hurries her pupil up the stairs, silent with a hand digging urgently into the girl’s clothed spine.

“Good afternoon, Miss Leo, Miss Page,” Bill calls up the main staircase, “Until we meet again!”   
____

They burst into the empty schoolroom as if surfacing from a deep dive. Karen shuts the door firmly behind them and locks it for good measure. Leo has drifted to the fireplace which glows a deep, calming red. She stares into the flames with a troubled look.

Karen takes a moment to remove her coat and lay it across a side table. She takes care when approaching Leo. The lie Leo gave Mr. Russo downstairs had rolled so quickly from the girl’s mouth. Karen hears the disjointed words of Headmaster Fisk:

_Deceit is a sad fault in a child and sure sign of wickedness._

“Leo…?”

The little girl does not respond. Still, in her coat and gloves, she hugs herself tightly and continues to stare distantly. Karen comes to kneel beside her, taking Leo by the shoulders and turning her gently so they face each other. Leo does not meet her eyes.

“Leo, you were not truthful with Mr. Russo.”

“No, Miss.”

“Why? He is a friend – he asked after your parents.”

“Yes, Miss.”

“Why did you tell him your brother was with them?”

Leo’s lower lip begins to quiver, and tears gather on her lashes. She inhales sharply before pressing her lips together and squeezing her eyes shut. Fat tears escape and roll down her cheeks.

“Leo, dear heart… why did you tell – “

“Mr. Castle told me to!” the words are depth charges shaking the deep. Leo begins to cry in earnest and throws herself against Karen’s shoulders.

Karen settles her shawl around the girl’s shoulders and helps her into Karen’s fireside armchair to rest. Shortly after, Leo calms and falls into a troubled sleep. Karen summons Adele and kisses Leo’s forehead once before taking her leave.

An unsettled feeling follows Karen the rest of the night. She thinks of venturing into the kitchen where Cook and Dinah are most likely peeling apples for a tart while Sam darns socks, happy to be in their company. She dismisses the notion – considers calling on Mrs. Nelson for tea, but Karen’s mind is too active to manage the housekeeper’s enthusiastic stream of gossip.

In the end, she retreats to her room. Before a leaping fire in the hearth, she loses herself to the day’s events.

_“… Neck deep in enemy ranks…_ ” Bill Russo’s snickered line returns to her. The upward curve of one handsome eyebrow punctuates his words.

_“…Two knives at his disposal.”_

Karen glares into the flames.

She sits at her desk and opens her notebook, pen poised over a fresh page. Nothing comes, though. Leo’s tears rise in her mind along with the tight grip of the girl’s hands on Karen’s sleeves as she wept, “Mr. Castle told me to!”

There is no choice but to speak with the man himself. Karen closes the lid of her inkpot, stands, and straightens the lines of her dress. To approach the master of the house without invitation is a breach of protocol that could end her employment in minutes. Karen thinks again of Leo’s tears and Russo’s words and knows she cannot leave this stone unturned.

Unlatching her door, she listens in the hall for approaching steps. Silence has settled over the house. Creeping to the top of the landing, she looks down into the foyer and spies the glow of firelight from Mr. Castle’s study.

It's now or never.

She takes the stairs quickly, slipping between shadows and practically running across the hall. Pilot gives a small whuff when she enters, jerking to his feet and trotting to Karen.   
Castle’s knees and shins are visible from behind the wing chair. He starts at the sound of Pilot’s greeting, turns in place to meet her with a sharp glare.

“Miss Page?”

Karen takes a deep breath, “Mr. Castle, I must speak with you.”

“You shouldn’t be here,” Castle says, slowly rising from his seat. At his full height, the man seems to fill the room.

She shakes her head; she will not be dissuaded. “It concerns Leo.”

His demeanor changes in an instant. The lines of his body straighten, and concern rises in his eyes. “Come in then and shut the door.”

Karen steps inside. He motions to the chair opposite, and she sinks into it, her hands gripped tightly in her lap. Her scalp prickles as he resumes his seat. There is a glass of whiskey on the small table at his side, and he draws it to his lips.

“You’ve taken a risk coming here.”

“I do not hesitate when it comes to Leo.”

He nods in agreement and gestures for her to continue. She takes a deep breath.

“Friends of yours called to the house this afternoon – Mr. Hoyle and Mr. Russo.”

“So I hear.”

“Mr. Russo was quite solicitous of Leo – asking after her health and that of her family. When he inquired about her brother Zachary, Leo said he was in Europe with his parents.”

Karen watches his face for a sign of surprise, but Castle does not react. In the absence of a response, she continues. “When I began here a few months ago, Mrs. Nelson said he was in a private school in Washington. Either I was told a falsehood that day, Mr. Castle, or Leo has lied to your friend.”

“And what do you think, Miss Page?”

“I think, if anything, neither are true. And if that is the case, sir, it is a grave concern. Made more so by the fact that Leo says you have instructed her to lie.”

Castle freezes, his glass held just below his chin. Now Karen can detect a shadow of surprise in his features. She leans towards him, voice low.

“Why would that be, sir?”

It is the second time she has put him off his footing. The master of the house inhales noisily, sets his glass aside and reclines, steepling his fingers against his mouth.

“Anything I instruct Leo to do is in the interest of keeping her safe, Miss Page.”

“Lies are not safety, sir.”

“Oh?” His lips form a cruel sneer, “That sounds like the words of a young woman unfamiliar with the world. You would say honesty overall, then?”

Karen’s brows knit in a hesitant glare, “I would say a child unable to tell the truth is in grave danger.”

‘ _Deceit_ ,’ hisses Headmaster Fisk in her mind. ‘ _Wicked_.’

Castle tilts his head, a look of mocking pity on his face, “As I said, ‘a woman unfamiliar with the world.’”

Without ceremony, he stands and strides to the door. “Don’t worry yourself over a girl’s stories, Miss Governess. I’ll speak to Leo myself.”

Pilot rises and ambles to his master’s side. Castle sweeps his long coat over his shoulders and pulls the buttons together. “Scurry back to your room now, before the rest of the house makes assumptions of you.”

He leaves and the dog trails behind him. Karen hears the jingle of the front door and the crisp of its latches as Castle pulls it shut behind him. The searing sting of his dismissal – both of her presence and her report – is infuriating. Frightening. Cruel.

Yet, he’s right. Karen has taken a risk to come here. She shifts in the chair, feeling the restrictions of her position. Karen waits a moment longer before slipping back to her room.


	6. There is no debt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _  
>  She will never be able to describe the passion that seized her at that moment – she will only remember the swift upward motion of raising the candlestick, and then opening the door to surprise whoever waits on the other side…_
> 
> _…then leaping back as they tumble through the door before she can strike. A body falls heavily at her feet._
> 
> _She recognizes the sweep of beard and the peculiar shape of his ears._
> 
> _“Mr. Castle?!”_
> 
> __

The fire in her hearth is low but still gives off heat. Karen removes her boots and pulls the quilt from her bed. She wraps herself in it and sits beside the grate. Castle’s rough dismissal was not a complete surprise, but frustrating. She knits her fingers together and presses joined thumbs to her lips. She thinks.

The night slips away from her and Karen wakes by the cold grate in the deepest part of the night. The house is still and dark. She stands unsteadily and begins to tug at the laces of her bodice. Her clothes are heavy and significantly wrinkled from her time on the floor. With a sigh, she pulls the laces free and shrugs out of her dress. Karen steps free of the stiff wool and stretches luxuriantly in her petticoats.

She lifts a leg to the mattress and begins to roll down one stocking when a sharp crack sounds from downstairs. She startles, straightens sharply with a gasp. Karen holds perfectly still, waiting for the rest of the house to rouse and acknowledge what’s happened.

Stillness.

A long pause.

Another sharp impact. It is coming from the front hall and carries the dooming sound of something heavy striking the front door. A cold wash of fear spreads through her limbs, settling in her stomach like a stone. Scenes flash through her mind – Adele and Leo murdered in their beds. The house is upturned. The beast of five points howling for blood.

Panic becomes resolve. Mind clear, Karen pulls her dressing gown over her shoulders and removes the remaining stocking. If only she has heard the intruder, then she is the only defense.

She cannot think of a time when all has been so clear: the shapes of her room are well-defined in the dark. Bed, door, weapon. Karen knocks a candle stub from its heavy candlestick and grips the cold metal in one hand.

Another great crash. Why does no one stir?

Karen’s hand finds the door quickly, and she steps into the hall on silent feet. Moonlight picks lacework patterns in the darkness ahead. She crosses to the landing and looks down into the foyer. All is dark but for the shape outlined in the stained glass of the front door.

It moves.

Karen gasps, catches the sound in one cupped hand, then squeezes the candlestick. The carpeted steps beneath her bare feet seem to flow, carrying her in a single determined wave from the relative safety of the landing to the cold floor of the entryway. She can make the shape of the door handle as it rattles just a few feet away.

She will never be able to describe the passion that seized her at that moment – she will only remember the swift upward motion of raising the candlestick, and then opening the door to surprise whoever waits on the other side…

…then leaping back as they tumble through the door before she can strike. A body falls heavily at her feet.

She recognizes the sweep of beard and the peculiar shape of his ears.

“Mr. Castle?!”

He is curled on his side in the low light from the street, writhing on the threshold with his long legs still on the step outside. He groans again, rasping out a guttural “Help” before collapsing entirely. One great hand locks around Karen's bare ankle and the touch is something galvanic.

Karen leaps back, concentration scattered in the wake of this surprise. He does not move again, his hand trails where she once stood. Karen comes to in the present and realizes at last what is before her. She rushes back, kneeling at his shoulder and shaking it hard.  
  
“Wake, sir! Wake up!”

Karen makes small, helpless sounds. Her hands flit from his shoulder to the broad spread of his back – all is strangely damp and a scent of copper threads through deeper notes of sweat and mud. She brings her fingertips to his clammy brow. He moans.

“Is there a flood?”

“No, sir. I think it’s blood. Get up; you’ve fallen through the door.”

Castle rolls to his side with great effort. He stares up into Karen’s face with a mixed look of confusion and disbelief.

“In the name of– Miss Page?”

Karen does not reply again. She squares herself and leans in to take hold of him by the arms. Castle lifts inelegantly, wheezing with an unseen injury. When he is upright, Karen straightens.

“I’ll call Mrs. Nelson.”

“NO!” he whispers fiercely, “Just you – “He makes a soft, struggling sound and curls in on himself.

Karen sinks into a grave silence, pausing to consider their options. A few rooms way Sam and Dinah sleep in their quarters behind the kitchen. Mrs. Nelson’s parlor is only a few steps beyond that. If anyone were to wake now they would find a bloody scene and Karen at the center. On the second floor, Leo and Adele are close – they cannot be made aware of the events unfolding here.

Through the darkness, Karen’s gaze alights on the open door of Castle’s study.

“Come,” she breathes, fitting her arm and shoulder under the master of the house and heaving him to his feet. He stifles another groan and does his best to move with her. Once inside, he reaches away from Karen’s grasp and collapses into his wingchair. The deep blackness of the empty hearth swallows his outline. Karen pulls the door shut, presses her back against it to close it firmly.

There is only the sound of their mingled breaths.

“Help,” he croaks. Karen pushes herself to her feet and rushes back to Castle.

His legs kick slowly, boot heels scraping along the fireside carpet. When Karen places a hand on his forearm, he grasps at her fingers inelegantly. She starts, gulps as he pulls her hand across his chest – lower, then lower still – and presses to a wide slash in the fabric of his shirt. It is warm and sticky with spent blood. Karen can feel the ragged edges of a deep wound there.

“Tell me –” He begins again in a low, breathless murmur, “Are governesses seamstresses as well?”

She swallows audibly, nodding before she realizes he cannot see her response. “Of course.”

“The basket under the bookshelf. Bring it here with a candle.”

Karen withdraws, feeling along the furniture until she reaches the bookshelf. The basket is tucked beside a low set of canvas-bound books. She draws it out and collects a candlestick, returning to Castle in a few quick steps. He is drawing shallow breaths, but they are even.

A match is produced and the candle flares to life.

It is worse than she could have imagined.

Deep purple bruises flower across Castle’s face, shining beneath a sheen of sweat, mud, and blood. Rich red slashes pepper his face and hands. His knuckles are open and raw. Castle wears all black; knit gansey, mud-caked canvas trousers, and thick leather boots. Karen lifts the candle close to his body to see the extent of the damage.

The gouge in his side is vicious but clean, a vertical slash across his ribs with smooth, straight edges. His shirt’s trailing threads are soaked in blood, catching in the clots of his wound. Karen picks delicately at the mess and pulls some of the offending ends away.

“Can it be mended?” Castle manages, his neck straining.

“It must be cleaned first.”

“Whiskey – the sideboard.”

Karen fetches the decanter and returns, pulling the stopper and handing him the bottle.

Castle inclines his head with a weak smirk, lifting the whiskey once in a small toast. He takes a deep pull, then arches his back and draws the shirt over his head. His body is a network of scars and healing injuries. Beneath these he is formed like a Hellenistic sculpture; chest broad and muscled, covered in a light dusting of dark hair. His stomach is firm and waist sharply defined where it disappears beneath the heavy leather belt of his trousers. She freezes. It is the most she has ever seen of another human, let alone a man.

Karen draws a shaky breath, blinks fast. He is aware of her discomfort and moves to pull the discarded shirt across his body.

“Apologies, I don’t mean – “

Karen stops Castle’s hand with her own. Shakes her head once, ‘No’ and sinks to her knees by his side. She takes the bottle from him, puts her lips to it and takes a sip for bravery.

It burns her tongue and sends tears to her eyes. She coughs, covers her mouth with the back of her hand. When she looks back, her gaze is firm. Karen hands back the whiskey and turns her attention to the basket.

Inside are neatly organized skeins of silk thread in soft spring colors. There is a folded handkerchief with a partially completed pattern of forget-me-nots and twining vines spread across one starched corner. The needle is still threaded with cornflower blue and pinned across an unfinished edge. The letters ‘MC’ are executed in deep grey.

“Any shade will do.” He says, managing a light tone.

Karen pulls up several inches of blue and snips the thread free with sewing scissors. As she prepares the needle, Castle stretches back in the chair and pours a liberal dose of the whiskey across his injury. When Karen approaches, he meets her look of determination with one of his own.

“Try not to move, sir.”

He nods and turns his head away.

Karen finds the procedure not unlike stitching heavy canvas. She works neatly, knotting off each suture and trimming the ends as she goes. It seems to take days to close the wound. They are silent, though he makes occasional grunts when she pulls the thread tight or presses hard. When the job is done Karen sits back on her heels and sighs deeply. Castle sprawls in the chair, his head rolling back with fatigue.

An exhausted weightlessness creeps into her bones. Karen tips her head up, drawing breath in deep, slow gulps. Silent minutes pass, and Karen is aware of slow, even breathing. Castle has fallen asleep. She thinks of the open front door, the blood in the foyer, the state of his clothes and now his study. It will take a good hour to clean – but dawn is nearing, and the house cannot rise to find this scene.

She stands, joints complaining from the cold floor. Karen tidies away the sewing kit, stoppers the whiskey and moves to lift the candle from the side table.

“I will manage the mess.”

His voice is disembodied – the poor light does not show the movement of his lips, but Karen can perceive his dark eyes are open and fixed on her.

“You must rest, sir.”

“No,” he replies, pulling himself upright and then to his feet. His is tall, even as he slumps to guard the injury. “No, you’ve exhausted yourself at my expense. Return to your bed, Miss Page. I’ll finish this.”

Whiskey and exhaustion fraying her judgment, Karen steps forward to ghost fingertips over her handiwork. The sweat and blood have dried on his skin, and the texture is curiously tacky.

“… sir. What caused this?”

Castle looks down to their point of connection. A breath passes between them before he takes her fingers in his and guides them away gently.

“Nothing that will threaten the safety of this house.”

“But how will you – “

The sneer of hours ago has paled, softening to a wry smile. “I will account for the state of affairs.” He has not released her. Karen watches his chest rise and fall with his breath; detects a slight hitch as he says, “Say nothing of tonight, or your… embroidery.”

She nods silently, unable meet his gaze for fear he may see the sudden tumult that has taken hold behind her eyes.

Castle weaves on his feet, weak from blood loss but determined to remain sturdy. “Miss Page, I would have died on my front step if not for you. I –” He pauses, dips his head low to catch her gaze. “I have the pleasure of owing you my life.”

Karen wets her lips, presses them together. “There is no debt.”

She is aware of him moving closer, the sound of his breath like the sea. “There are so few I would trust, Miss Page, or protect. People talk of natural sympathies… You…”

He is lost in thought then, eyes flickering from her face to their hands and back again. He licks his lips and a warning bell chimes in the back of her mind.

“Good night, sir.”

“You would leave?”

Karen’s mouth is dry. The heat of him engulfs her and she is overwhelmed. There is skin and mingled scents, married with a retreating tide of adrenaline that leaves her feeling weightless. She is tethered only by his grasp on her fingers.

“I am cold.”

He nods, head heavy, lifting his free hand to grasp her elbow once, firmly.

“Go.”

 


	7. Better is a dinner of herbs where love is

Karen passes the remainder of the early morning hours in her bed yet unable to sleep. The broad square of her window warms with morning light and finds her drawn, yet alert. Her mind has played the night’s scene over and over again – from the first thud at the door to Castle’s large hand taking her own.

_“You would leave?”_

A bloom of heat spreads through her body, and her bedclothes seem to have the weight of heavy chains. She rises with a sigh of frustration a full hour before Dinah is due to build a fire and leave a breakfast tray. A copy of Stendhal’s The Red and the Black at her bedside cannot hold her attention. Her hands seem too weak to hold a pen for her journal.

Feeling ancient yet lit through with fire, Karen dresses and pulls her hair into a sleek knot. With a deep breath, she pulls open her bedroom door and steps out into the hall, fully expecting the chaos of the night to be still spread across the foyer below.

The floor is spotless, the front door closed and latched firmly. The dark splashes of blood and filth tracked in with the injured Castle have been cleared away. The floor is freshly swept and gleaming. He has done as promised, though the shock of it sets her back a few steps.

She cannot help taking the stairs two at a time to the ground floor. The door is slightly ajar. When she pushes it open a scene of idyll is revealed. The whiskey and bloodied clothing are gone, and the room is neat as a pin.

Karen’s fingertips drift to her collar as she recalls the night before.

_“I have the pleasure of owing you my life.”_

“There is no debt,” she says again, softly.

 As Karen turns to go, a small flash of unexpected brightness catches her eye. There, on the seat of Castle’s favorite chair, is a sheet of paper folded into a precise square. It is addressed merely to “The Seamstress.”

 Karen presses her lips together tightly. She snatches the note up and unfolds it. The flowing script is a surprise, given Mr. Castle’s manor. She steps under an east-facing window and reads:

  _Madam,_

_Many thanks for your quick and able assistance. I am thankful someone so skilled with needle and thread was so close to home. My regular tailor, himself quite skilled at patching and stitching, will appraise your work in the morning. I expect he will find it faultless._

_The extent of mending needed may delay my return to Thorn House. I will ask my tailor to visit with you and confirm all is well in the home. Though you insist no debt is owed, I am_

_In your service,_

_FC_

“Miss Page!” Mrs. Nelson appears in the door, a dust cloth in hand despite the early hour.

Karen starts, turns to hide the paper in her hands, and offers an ingratiating smile. “Good morning, Mrs. Nelson. Are you well?”

“Well? _Well?!_ ” The matron’s frilled cap quivers as she shakes her head, “I awake this morning and proceed to the front hall, as is my custom. There, I spy chips of wood at the baseboard. ‘Why,’ I say to myself, ‘That is the VERY color of our own front door!’

 Mrs. Nelson reaches one trembling hand to Karen, the other presses the dust cloth to her bosom. “Miss Page, I opened that same door to find the lock battered! Our home attacked!”

 Karen tucks the letter under her shirtwaist and threads her free arm into Mrs. Nelson’s. Karen pats the older woman’s sleeve as she guides her out to the hall towards the kitchen.

 “There, there,” she murmurs, “I’m sure it was nothing to worry over. Why, so much of this old house is fitted in the same wood tones. In fact, I believe I myself may have mistakenly chipped something …”

 Of course, Karen thinks. Only a long-time housekeeper would wake to check front-hall baseboards. She holds the green baize door for Mrs. Nelson and follows her to her sitting room.

Lack of sleep on Karen’s part does not impede Leo’s energy. The schoolroom is a galvanized after breakfast by the arrival of an envelope, water stained and covered in stamps, addressed to Leo herself. It is a letter from her parents several sheets long, folded around an image of the moon on stiff paper. Looking closely, student and governess discover it is an exact likeness that goes well beyond illustration. Karen’s exhaustion lifts as she helps the decipher Professor Leiberman’s crabbed, slanting script:

 _“Little one,_  
  
Your mama and I think of you every day. We send our love along with this fascinating discovery – a “daguerreotype” of the January moon. A Frenchman skilled both in science and art has discovered a novel method of fixing images on a card. We encountered him on our travels and were reminded of your sharp little mind.”

 Leo traces her fingers along the knapped edges of the card, careful not to touch its heavily inked face. She hunches deep over the letter, losing herself between the lines. Karen catches the end of the first page and reads before she can stop herself:

  _“Are you taking good care of Mr. Castle? Perhaps you might read aloud to him some nights. He must not be allowed to forget happiness…”_

 The words are like weights and remind Karen of another note tucked among the books. She paces before the bookshelf a moment before taking down the cloth-bound book of poems and pulls the sheet free.

_…Are you well, papa? Do you miss your Lisa and Frankie? Mama misses you terrible…_

 A breath of cold rolls across Karen’s neck. She folds the paper and tucks it into her pocket beside Castle’s letter.

 “Leo, perhaps we’ll compose a reply to your mama and papa?”

 There is no answer. The little girl is wholly consumed, drinking in the love of her distant parents, deaf to the schoolroom and her governess. Karen straightens a stack of books, arranges glassware along the windowsill, then finds herself staring out to the distant bay.

Who is this tailor? Where could Mr. Castle go for the sort of care his injuries would demand?

Outside, steely clouds dot the parchment-colored sky and shadow the rooflines of neighboring houses. Karen props her jaw in one hand and studies distant snow moving slowly over the city. At her back the fire pops and sparks; Leo whispers the words of her father’s letter; somewhere downstairs a maid is singing.

A handful of deep breaths transport Karen to the long-forgotten window seat of Aunt Marion’s guest room – called the Red Room for its burgundy drapes and dark Arabian rug. Karen is ten. A round spot of red blood goes brown on the knee of her pinafore. Her cousin John shouts at his mother on the floor below. 

The trouble began when Karen borrowed a book of North American songbirds from the library shelves and hidden away to trace illustrations and imagine flying as free as those beings might.

John found her instead.

“Little rat – your paws are dirtying my fine book.”

Karen pulled back, hugging the book against her chest. John leaned in close, his lip curling in a foul sneer. 

“Give me my things, rat.”

He pulled the book from her hands and whipped her temple with the spine. The knock sent Karen back, drew blood, made her dizzy. Karen launched herself at the bigger boy, tumbling him to the rug and punching savagely. When Aunt Marion had arrived, Karen was hauled back roughly by the neck of her dress and slapped with such venom she lost sight and sound.

“You _creature_. You dare attack my son – your master?” Aunt Marion’s voice was cold as January and hollow besides.

Held by both arms, Karen writhed and spat with rage. “He’s not my master. I’m no servant.”

Marion recoiled with disgust. John crept behind his mother’s skirts and peered out at Karen, who noted with some pride his swollen lip and reddened cheek. Aunt Marion’s hand curled as if to lash out again.

“No,” her aunt replied in a frostbitten tone, “You are lower than a servant. You do nothing for your keep.”

Here in the present, Karen knows the next steps like an old dance. She would spend the rest of that day and the whole night besides locked in the Red Room. The book would vanish. The following afternoon Headmaster Fisk would be summoned, and within the week she would be on a coach to Lowood school. Three months after that she would receive word from a family servant of Kevin's death.

“Miss, are you well?”

Karen shifts and her head tumbles from her hand. The shades of Aunt Marion and John dissipate. When she fully returns to the room, Karen finds Leo watching her from the table.

“Of course, dear one. I was only looking at the sky. The weather will hold a few more hours – will we walk to the park before the snow arrives?”

 Leo grins in agreement. She tidies away her father’s letter, carefully preserving it in the front leaves of an oversized book of fairy tales.

__

Shortly, with both dressed for the afternoon chill, Karen unlatches the front door. She is startled to find Mr. Hoyle on the step; his hand is raised to knock.

“Good afternoon, Miss Page.”

“It is a pleasure, Mr. Hoyle.”

He smiles as Leo delivers a fierce hug around his middle.

“Leo Lioness – are you behaving for your governess?”

The girl nods with her cheek pressed against Curtis’ stomach. He meets Karen’s eyes with warmth, then gives a look that speaks plainly: there is something they must discuss.

“Leo, will you fetch my gloves from the school room? I’m quite forgetful today.”

The little girl nods and departs on her mission. There is time now for whatever Mr. Hoyle has for her.

“We share an acquaintance with more luck than sense. And an excellent seamstress.”

Her heart flutters once, twice. Karen draws in a sharp breath of understanding.

“I believe we do, sir.”

There is a mild of relief on Curtis’ face as he leans down to Karen. His voice is low, “All is well – mostly. You saved his life, Miss Page.”

“Oh, I highly doubt –“

“No,” Curtis cuts her off, the edge of his whisper harsh. “Frank got himself into something that could have killed him. He told me –“  
  
At that moment, Leo returns to the front step. “Curtis,” she announces with the grace of a society matron, “Miss Page and I are walking to the park. Come with us?"  
  
Curtis replies a look of fondness Karen recognized in Mr. Castle all those weeks ago. Wherever Leo’s family are now, they must surely know she is cared for both inside Thorn House and beyond.  
  
“We would be delighted if you joined us,” Karen adds.  
  
"How could I refuse?"  
  
The three proceed along an avenue bright with winter light. Leo moves ahead, eager to reach the park and the waterfront. With light steps, she flits forward - first, ringing around a winter-bare tree, then darting up the steps of neighboring houses before dancing down again. In a few moments, she is well ahead of the adults and deep in a world of her own.  
  
For Karen, each step calls to mind a new question she does not dare ask. What is the extent of her employer’s injuries? What activities incur such wounds? Has this happened before? What happens if it happens again and no one is there to help him?  
  
The words die on her tongue. Instead, she finds herself making frustrating (if polite) conversation.  
  
“Have you been acquainted with Mr. Castle long, Mr. Hoyle?”  
  
Curtis looks up to the sky, seeming to count years in the clouds.  
  
“Quite a long time, Miss Page. I mentioned I served with Frank, didn’t I?”  
  
She recalls the previous day that began with Mr. Russo at the door and ended with Mr. Castle torn to ribbons under her hands. “Indeed. Rock River, you said?”  
  
They turn onto the broad main street that carries directly to the end of Manhattan island. At the far end, beyond carriages and carts crossing in haphazard transit, Karen can see the shift and glitter of January ice in the bay. The pair continues in silence. Curtis is lost in thought.

“On the upper Mississippi – Frank, myself and a few other good men. We rode with infantries facing western tribes.”  
  
Ten years before, newspapers reported soldiers taking on thousands of armed warriors in Wisconsin. Over a long summer that ran red with blood, the US military put down an unprecedented uprising. The battles secured lands for the union and made headlines from Florida to Maine. While national events were not part of the Lowood curriculum, Karen could remember the people of Fagan Corners and their brutal estimations of the tribes.

Leo is well ahead, making a game of skipping across light and shadowed patches of the path. She pauses to kick at a mound of gravel-thick snow before dashing on.  
  
“I remember the reports,” Karen ventures, “It must have been quite dangerous.”  
   
Curtis shrugs, neither denying her statement nor making much of it. He is a big man but radiates a calmness that Karen imagines even combat could not shake.  
  
“It was war. Frank and Bill led platoons, I was a medic – ended up helping out on both sides when it came to it. Never had a problem if it was for Frank.”  
  
Karen slows in her steps and to face Mr. Hoyle directly. He moves in step with her, staying close so their voices do not carry.  
  
“Both sides?”  
  
Mr. Hoyle tucks his chin to his chest. The two keep pace with long, slow strides as he thinks.  
   
“Frank and I share similar views on the battlefield and off. No one was born who deserved to suffer. We helped when we could. Soldier, warrior, farmer, passerby; doesn’t matter–” He halts in the middle of the path and shakes his head with a soft chuckle.  

“We’re no angels, Miss Page. We’re no monsters, either.” Curtis shakes his head, “I don’t mean to be morose. The day is too fine for that.”

He gestures back along the avenue. “I run a surgery in the Five Points – don’t often get time to stroll the avenues.”

A wry grin tugs at the corner of Karen’s mouth, “I expect there’s plenty of work to keep a tailor busy.”  
  
“Lot of families. Women. Children. They deserve care; no matter what the papers say about the neighborhood.”  
  
Karen likes Curtis’ steady, decided manner. She imagines he would have saved lives and souls alike on the battlefield. Standing with him in the wind-whipped, bright afternoon light, Karen feels as though last night’s events happened in some other life.  The blood, the whiskey, the touch of Mr. Castle’s hand on her own.  
  
“Please. Is he truly well?”  
  
Curtis raises one large hand in a gentling movement, “I can assure you, Frank doesn’t stay down long.”  
  
“There was so much blood. I thought that he would _die_ –” Karen’s words tumble out in a rush before she can give them much thought. She presses her lips together and feels a blush heat her cheeks. “Apologies, Mr. Hoyle.”  
  
“None needed, Miss Page. We share the same sentiment. You found him in time – kept him safe.”  
  
A chill passes through her as Mr. Castle’s words the night rise like mist, _“Nothing will threaten the safety of this house.”_  
   
Curtis studies Karen’s pained expression. He seems to search for - and find - something in her furrowed brow. “Are you very devout, Miss Page?”

“Sir?”

He grins, “There's a congregation on Baxter and 10th that meets most Sundays beside my surgery. Governesses and seamstresses are encouraged to piousness, I believe.”  
  
Karen returns his grin, “Particularly on Sundays, Mr. Hoyle.”

Sunlight dapples the shoulders and lapels of Mr. Hoyle’s coat and warms the hazel of his eyes. “Ah, well. You must bring your bible to the Five Points, then. You might even stop in and say hello on your way.”  
   
“That would be a fine idea, Mr. Hoyle.”  
  
He inclines his head in the smallest of bows, then calls down the street to where Leo is attempting to scale one of the ornamental trees along the curb.  
  
“Miss Leo, mind your governess. And get DOWN THIS INSTANT!”

He turns with a wave and walks back the way they came. Karen watches him depart, idly slipping a hand into her pocket. Her fingers encounter the much-folded edge of Lisa’s letter.

“Mr. Hoyle!”

He is only a block away, but it could be miles in this cold. Karen’s lungs burn as she runs. She is breathless but animated as she passes the letter to him. 

"Please, could you see he receives this? It isn't sealed."

Curtis is puzzled but accepts the page and opens it. As he reads, his face passes from surprise to open grief. When he reaches the end, Curtis doubles the note again and tucks it into his breast pocket. His head hangs a moment, hand resting where the letter now resides. As he lifts his gaze, Karen can see tears along the dark line of his lashes. 

“Thank you. For this - for Frank.”

“Until Sunday,” she replies.

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thanks to the incredible [ Skasis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skasis/pseuds/Skasis) for her insight and beta-ness as I kicked this thing off - YOU ARE AMAZING!
> 
> I started with Jane Eyre and let the characters show me the way. You're going to love where they go. I'll be updating on Sundays until this bad boy is done. Thoughts, comments, suggestions? Find me on Tumblr @FrankCastlesTankTop.


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